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 Post subject: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Tue Sep 11, 2007 7:43 am 
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Posts: 2748
Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same
hospital room.
One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour
each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs.
His bed was next to the room's only window.

The other man had to spend all his time flat on his
back.

The men talked for hours on end.

They spoke of their wives and families, their homes,
their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been
on vacation.

Every afternoon, when the man in the bed by the
window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate
all the things he could see outside the window.

The man in the other bed began to live for those one
hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the
activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake.

Ducks and swans played on the water while children
sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of
every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the
distance.

As the man by the window described all this in
exquisite details, the man on the other side of the room would close his
eyes and imagine this picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon, the man by the window described
a parade passing by.
Although the other man could not hear the band - he
could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it
with descriptive words.


Days, weeks and months passed.

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water
for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who
had died peacefully in his sleep.

She was saddened and called the hospital attendants
to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man
asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make
the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one
elbow to take his first look at the real world outside.

He strained to slowly turn to look out the window
besides the bed.
It faced a blank wall.

The man asked the nurse what could have compelled
his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this
window.

The nurse responded that the man was blind and could
not even see the wall.

She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."


Epilogue

There is tremendous happiness in making others
happy, despite our own situations.

Shared grief is half the sorrow, but happiness when
shared, is doubled.

If you want to feel rich, just count all the things
you have that money can't buy.

"Today is a gift, that is why it is called The
Present."


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 Post subject: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Wed Oct 10, 2007 6:47 am 
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Subject: FW: Run through the rain today







A little girl had been shopping with her Mom in Target. She must have been 6 years old, this beautiful red haired, freckle faced image of innocence. It was pouring outside. The kind of rain that gushes over the top of rain gutters, so much in a hurry to hit the earth it has no time to flow down the spout. We all stood there under the awning and just inside the door of the Target.

We waited, some patiently, others irritated because nature messed up their hurried day. I am always mesmerized by rainfall. I got lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world. Memories of running, splashing so carefree as a child came pouring in as a welcome reprieve from the worries of my day.

The little voice was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance we were all caught in "Mom let's run through the rain," she said.
"What?" Mom asked.

"Lets run through the rain!" She repeated.

"No, honey. We'll wait until it slows down a bit," Mom replied.

This young child waited about another minute and repeated: "Mom, let's run through the rain,"

"We'll get soaked if we do," Mom said.

"No, we won't, Mom. That's not what you said this morning," the young girl said as she tugged at her Mom's arm.

This morning? When did I say we could run through the rain and not get wet?

"Don't you remember? When you were talking to Daddy about his cancer, you said, 'If God can get us through this, he can get us through anything!"

The entire crowd stopped dead silent. I swear you couldn't hear anything but the rain. We all stood silently. No one came or left in the next few minutes.
Mom paused and thought for a moment about what she would say. Now some would laugh it off and scold her for being silly. Some might even ignore what was said. But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child's life. A time when innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will bloom into faith.

"Honey, you are absolutely right. Let's run through the rain. If GOD let's us get wet, well maybe we just needed washing," Mom said.

Then off they ran. We all stood watching, smiling and laughing as they darted past the cars and yes, through the puddles. They held their shopping bags over their heads just in case. They got soaked. But they were followed by a few who screamed and laughed like children all the way to their cars.

And yes, I did. I ran. I got wet. I needed washing.

Circumstances or people can take away your material possessions, they can take away your money, and they can take away your health. But no one can ever take away your precious memories...So, don't forget to make time and take the opportunities to make memories everyday. To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven..
I HOPE YOU STILL TAKE THE TIME TO RUN THROUGH THE RAIN.


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 Post subject: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Wed Oct 10, 2007 7:31 pm 
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Keep the candle burning...



***************************************************



***************************************************






I guarantee you will remember the tale of the Wooden Bowl, tomorrow, a week from now, a month from now, a year from now.


A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four-year - old grandson.

The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.

The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and

failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor.

When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.

The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess.
"We must do something about father," said the son.

"I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor."

So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner.

There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner.

Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.

When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometimes he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone.

Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.

The four-year-old watched it all in silence.


One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor.

He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?" Just as sweetly, the boy responded,

"Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up.
" The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.

The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless.

Then tears started to stream down their cheeks.

Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.

That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table.

For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason,

neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.

On a positive note, I've learned that, no matter what happens,

how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.

I've learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles four things:

a rainy day, the elderly, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.

I've learned that, regardless of your relationship with your parents,

you'll miss them when they're gone from your life.

I've learned that making a "living" is not the same thing as making a "life.."

I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance.

I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands.

You need to be able to throw something back

I've learned that if you pursue happiness, it will elude you

But, if you focus on your family, your friends, the needs of others,

your work and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you

I've learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision.

I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one.

I've learned that every day, you should reach out and touch someone.

People love that human touch -- holding hands, a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back.

I've learned that I still have a lot to learn.


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 Post subject: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2007 7:01 am 
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The Folded Napkin ...



A Truckers Story


If this doesn't light your fire..your wood is wet!




I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie.

He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.

The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop germ" the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.

I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.

After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag.
If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.

Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work.

He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.

A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine.

Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.

Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table.

Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.

He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.

"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."

"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"

Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills.. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is." Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do.

After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."

She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie".

"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers."

That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.

His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.

Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.

"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room.

I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.

Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.

Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. "Happy Thanksgiving,".

Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.

But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.

Best worker I ever hired.

Plant a seed and watch it grow.


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 Post subject: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Sun Nov 18, 2007 7:03 am 
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The Sandpiper

By Robert Peterson





She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live.

I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world

Begins to close in on me She was building a sand castle or something

And looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.



"Hello," she said.



I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.



"I'm building," she said.



"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.



"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."



That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.



A sandpiper glided by.



"That's a joy," the child said.



"It's a what?"



"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."



The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself,

Hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed

Completely out of balance.



"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.



"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."



"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."



"Hi, Wendy."



She giggled. "You're funny," she said.



In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on.

Her musical giggle followed me.



"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."



The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings,

And an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out

Of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.



The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was

Chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.



"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"



"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.



"I don't know. You say."



"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.



The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."



"Then let's just walk."



Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.

"Where do you live?" I asked.



"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.



Strange, I thought, in winter.



"Where do you go to school?"



"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."



She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was

On other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.

Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.



Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no

Mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt

Like demanding she keep her child at home.



"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd

Rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.



"Why?" she asked.



I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought,

My God, why was I saying this to a little child?



"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."



"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and -- oh, go away!"



"Did it hurt?" she inquired.



"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.



"When she died?"



"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding,

Wrapped up in myself. I strode off.



A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there.

Feeling guilty, ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up

To the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking

Young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.



"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today

And wondered where she was."



"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much.

I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance,

Please, accept my apologies."



"Not at all -- she's a delightful child." I said, suddenly realizing

that I meant what I had just said.



"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia.

Maybe she didn't tell you."



Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.



"She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no.

She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.

But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered, "She left

something for you, if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"



I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young

woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed in bold

childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach,

a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:



A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.



Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love

opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,

I'm so sorry," I uttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little

picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for each year

of her life -- that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.



A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand

-- who taught me the gift of love.



----------------------------------------------


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sun Feb 24, 2008 9:35 am 
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A group of students were asked to list what they thought were the present "Seven Wonders of the World".
Though there were some disagreements, the following received the most votes.

1) Egypt's 'Great Pyramids'.
2) Taj Mahal.
3) Grand Canyon.
4) Panama Canal.
5) Empire State Building.
6) St Peter's Basilica.
7) China's Great Wall.

While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one student had not finished her paper yet. So she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list. The young girl replied, "Yes, a little. I couldn't make up my mind because there were so many."
The teacher said, "Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help."
The girl hesitated, then read, "I think the 'Seven Wonders of the World' are:
1) To See.
2) To Hear.
3) To Touch.
4) To Taste.
5) To Feel.
6) To Laugh.
7) To Love.

The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. The things we overlook as simple and ordinary, and that we take for granted, are truly wondrous! A gentle reminder that the most precious things in life cannot be built by hand, or bought by man.


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 Post subject: anecdotes
PostPosted: Thu Jun 26, 2008 8:16 am 
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Recently I witnessed a fascinating debate between a Rabbi and a Doctor of
> Christian theology. The debate is a classic.
>
> "The trouble with you Jews", said the Doctor; "is that although all the
> Apostles and the original church were Jews, Israel as a nation rejected
> the Messiah when he came. Your own religious sects demanded he die."
>
> The Rabbi replied "The trouble with you Gentiles is that you cut God into
> three pieces. We know Isaiah declared the name of the Messiah, who you
> call Christ, would be; Immanuel, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of
> Peace.
>
> Yet these are not the names of many Christ's but the crowning titles of
> Jesus. His attributes are many but His one name affirms Christ is one
> Lord."
>
> The Doctor "We confess Jesus is the Christ but he is not the Father
> referred
> to in Matthew 28:19 for when this word was given it revealed clearly for
> first time, the three distinct and separate Persons of the Trinity."
>
> The Rabbi laughed, "Ok, for arguments sake, let's place the Prophets to
> one side on the basis they did not walk in the greater light of the Lamb.
>
> Will you believe the Apostles then, if their teachings support the fact,
> Jesus is the name of the Father spoken of in Matthew 28:19?"
>
> Replied the Doctor, "I say again, the Christ, the Son, is not that
> Father!"
>
> The Rabbi leaned forward, "Ah, let's examine your trinity. Jesus commanded
> the Apostles to baptize in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy
> Spirit. Correct? Tell me then; what ...name... did the Apostles actually
> baptize in?"
>
> Whispered the Doctor, "In the name of Jesus Christ."
>
> Rabbi, "Amen, observe how the titles of Matthew 28:19 mirror those used in
> Isaiah 9:6 and that the Apostles and Gabriel independently ascribe the
> name of Jesus the Christ in both cases.
>
> See Moses said; 'God is one Lord,' and Zechariah; 'there shall be one Lord
> and His name one', and finally the Apostles baptized in Jesus name. Each
> born of the other. The one name establishing that God is one Person!
>
> Who is antichrist but they who deny Jesus Christ is the Father and Son!
> Your Nicean calf, the trinity is antichrist. Come out of her my people.


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 Post subject: anecdotes
PostPosted: Fri Dec 05, 2008 6:25 am 
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The SON
This is great, take a moment to read it, it will make your day!
The ending will surprise you.

Take my Son

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.
When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands.
He said, 'Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art.' The young man held out this package. 'I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this.'

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. 'Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift.'

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.
The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over ;seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection.

On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. 'We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?'

There was silence.

Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, 'We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one.'

But the auctioneer persisted. 'Will somebody bid for this painting? Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?'

Another voice angrily. 'We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Gogh's, the Rembrandts. Get on with the
real bids!'

But still the auctioneer continued. 'The son! The son! Who'll take the son?'

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardene r of the man and his son. 'I'll give $10 for the painting..' Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.
'We have $10, who will bid $20?'
'Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters.'
The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son
They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.
The auctioneer pounded the gavel. 'Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!'
A man sitting on the second row shouted, 'Now let's get on with the collection!'

The auctioneer laid down his gavel. 'I'm sorry, the auction is over.'

'What about the paintings?'

'I am sorry.. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings.

The man who took the son gets everything!'

God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: 'The son, the son, who'll take the son?'


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 Post subject: anecdotes
PostPosted: Tue Jun 23, 2009 12:46 pm 
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Isn't it amazing that George Carlin - comedian of the 70's and 80's - could write something so very eloquent...and so very appropriate.

A Message by George Carlin
The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways , but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete...

Remember; spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever.

Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side.

Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, 'I love you' to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you.

Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again.

Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER:

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.


George Carlin


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 Post subject: anecdotes
PostPosted: Tue Jun 23, 2009 12:50 pm 
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A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our small Texas town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on.

As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey. But the stranger...he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with adventures, mysteries and comedies.

If I wanted to
know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the first major league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.

Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.)

Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home... Not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our longtime visitor, however, got away with
four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush. My Dad didn't permit the liberal use of alcohol. But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished.







He talked freely (much too freely!) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing.

I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked... And NEVER asked to leave.

More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into my parents' den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner,waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.



His name?.... .. .



We just call him 'TV.'

(Note: This should
be required reading for every household inAmerica !)
He has a wife now....We call her 'Computer.'


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 Post subject: anecdotes
PostPosted: Wed Feb 10, 2010 7:39 am 
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An Obituary printed in the London Times - Interesting and sadly rather true.

Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:

- Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
- Why the early bird gets the worm;
- Life isn't always fair;
- and maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims. Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. Common Sense was preceded in death, by his parents, Truth and Trust, by his wife, Discretion, by his daughter, Responsibility, and by his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers; I Know My Rights, I Want It Now, Someone Else Is To Blame, and I'm A Victim

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, join the majority and do nothing


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Wed Feb 10, 2010 9:32 am 
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ALL THINGS CONSIDERED

Last year, my young son played T-Ball. Needless to say, I was delighted when Dylan wanted to play.
Now on the other team there was a girl I will call Tracy. Now Tracy came each week. I know, since my son's team always played her team. She was not very good. She had coke-bottle glasses and hearing aids on each ear. She ran in a loping, carefree way, with one leg pulling after the other, one arm windmilling wildly in the air.
Everyone in the stands cheered for her, regardless of which team their children played for. In all the games I saw, she never hit the ball, not even close. It sat there on the Tee, waiting to be hit and it never was. Sometimes, after 10 or 11 swings, Tracy hit the Tee. The ball would fall off the Tee and sit on the ground 6 inches in front of Home-plate. "Run, run!" yelled Tracy's coach and Tracy would lope off to first, clutching the bat in both arms, smiling. Someone usually woke up and ran her down with the ball before she reached first.
Everyone applauded.
At he last game of the season, Tracy came up, and through some fluke, or simply in a nod toward the law of averages, she really creamed the ball. It smoked right up the middle, through the legs of 17 players. Kids dodged as it went by, or looked absentmindedly at it as it rolled unstopped, seemingly gaining in speed, hopping over second base, heading into center field. And once it reached there, there was no-one to stop it. Have I mentioned that there are no outfielders in T-Ball? There are for 3 minutes in the beginning of each inning, but then they move into the infield to be closer to the action, or, at least, to their friends.
Tracy hit the ball and stood at Home-plate, delighted. "Run!" yelled the coach, "Run!" All the parents, all of us, we stood and screamed, "Run, Tracy, run, run!" Tracy turned and smiled at us, and then, happy to please, galumped off to first. The first base coach waved his arms 'round and 'round when Tracy stopped at first. "Keep going, Tracy, keep going! Go!" Happy to please, she headed to second. By the time she was halfway to second, seven members of the opposition had reached the ball and were passing it among themselves. It's a rule in T-Ball, everyone on the defending team has to touch the ball.
The ball began to make its long and circuitous route toward Home plate, passing from one side of the field to the other. Tracy headed to third. Adults were falling off the stand yelling, "Go, Tracy, go!" Tracy reached third and stopped, but the parents were very close to her now and she got the message. Her coach stood at Home plate calling her as the ball passed over the first baseman's head and landed in the fielding team's empty dugout. "Come on, Tracy! Come on, baby! Get a home run!"
Tracy started for home, and then it happened. During the pandemonium, no one had noticed the 12 year old geriatric mutt that had lazily settled itself down in front of the stands, five feet from the third base line. As Tracy rounded third, the dog, awakened by the screaming, sat up and wagged it's tail at Tracy as she headed down the line. The tongue hung out, mouth pulled back in an unmistakable canine smile, and Tracy stopped, right there. Halfway home, 30 feet from a legitimate home run.
She looked at the dog. Her coach called, "Come on, Tracy! Come on home!" He went to his knees behind the plate, pleading. The crowd cheered, "Go, Tracy, GO!" She looked at all the adults, at her own parents shrieking and catching it all on video. She looked at her coach. She looked at Home plate. She looked at the dog. Everything went into slow motion. She went for the dog! It was a moment of complete, stunned, silence. And then, perhaps, not as loud, but deeper, longer, more heart-felt, we all applauded as Tracy fell to her knees to hug the dog.
Two roads diverged on a third base line. Tracy went for the dog, the road, not of rules and expectations, but, the road of love. Which do we choose.


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 Post subject: Re: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Mon Sep 12, 2011 7:52 pm 
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"RESPECT" TRANSFORMS a MARRIAGE
-by 'Val'.

In regard to marriage, I had been married for over thirty years to a
man who loved the Lord, but our marriage was not going well. I
would never leave him since I made a vow, and I knew that the
dissolution of my marriage would hurt scores of people, while it
would only temporarily assuage my personal pain. I had been
praying for a long time about it, and was trying to be the best wife
I could.

At one of my really low points I came across some material on
marriage by a man called Emerson Eggerich. He has a website
called 'Love and Respect'. His counsel is absolutely biblical, and
simply brings to light the ways in which we have lost the biblical
understanding. He unfolds the male psyche (which our grandmothers
understood, and feminism has clouded) in a way that challenged
me to the very core of my being. Even though I thought I was being
the very best wife I could, according to my own instincts, I had
completely missed it.

Modern women do not understand men or their core values, the
biggest of them being "respect". I began to reshape my thinking,
my actions and my words according to my new understanding,
and my hardened, somewhat angry husband, who had withdrawn
himself from me in many ways, softened before my eyes. Over a
period of months as I continued to pour into him the respect he
so desperately needed, he became a funny, sweet, and adoring
husband, which continues to this day. We recently celebrated
our 40th anniversary.

Women in general have lost their way and followed the world. Our
husbands are often miserable because of it. Men are pretty simple
creatures. Generally, If we give them what they need, they will do
just about anything for us... I cannot recommend this material
more highly to anyone who has struggles in marriage.


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 Post subject: Re: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Fri Sep 16, 2011 7:48 am 
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An elderly lady was well-known for her faith and for her boldness in talking about it. For instance, she would stand on her front porch and shout, "PRAISE THE LORD!"

Next door to her lived an atheist who would get so angry at her proclamations he would shout, "There is no Lord!!"

Hard times set in on the elderly lady, and she prayed for God to send her some assistance. She stood on her porch and shouted, "PRAISE THE LORD. GOD, I NEED FOOD!! I AM HAVING A HARD TIME. PLEASE LORD, SEND ME SOME GROCERIES!!"

The next morning the lady went out on her porch and noted a large bag of groceries and shouted, "PRAISE THE LORD!"

The neighbor jumped from behind a bush and said, "Aha! I told you there is no Lord. I bought those groceries, God didn't."

The lady started jumping up and down and clapping her hands and said, "PRAISE THE LORD!! He not only sent me groceries, but He made the devil pay for them. Praise the Lord!"


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 Post subject: Re: Anecdotes
PostPosted: Sat Sep 17, 2011 7:41 am 
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THAT'S NOT MY JOB

This is a story about four people named Everybody, Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.

There was an important job to be done and Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it. Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.

Somebody got angry about that because it was Everybody’s job.

Everybody thought Anybody could do it, but Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn't do it.

It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did what Anybody could have.

today'sTHOT============================

We are all faced with great opportunities brilliantly disguised as impossible situations.


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